It’s Malaga Feria again, and the whole city is alive. How come the Spanish manage to have so much fun?

My neighbour has been promising to introduce me to bull fighting. He comes across to my gate, and announces that he is going to buy tickets, do I want to go? I have been waiting for a couple of years for this. Pedro knows Spain. Not only is he Spanish, but he can explain Spain - well, he can explain parts of it. I mean, we could go to a bullfight on our own, but how could we understand what is going on? As English, we were even surprised to find that bullfights are in the arts section of the newspaper, not the sports section.

So the answer is yes, please!

I dash into the house. “Guess what, Pedro has invited me to the bullfight”. I get that look. “Do you know how much it will cost?” “Err… no… I didn’t think to ask”. “Well, sometimes the tickets at the big events are a couple of hundred Euros”

I hadn’t thought of that. We are going on the first night, the names on the bill are well known. Oh, eck…

I needn’t have worried. Pedro got us 24 Euro tickets. “Right up at the top”, he boasts, “we will be able to see everything”. It has been decided that it is going to be a mens evening out - of course - Pedro is Spanish…

So off we trot to the Plaza del Toros in Malaga. Crowds throng around the entrances, and in the nearby bars. “We must have a coffee first” says Pedro. So we walk along the road a little way, to a bar where we can see the counter. Three coffees are ordered, and the explanations begin. Some of the Matadors were local, and all were very brave. The bar we had chosen had pictures of the bullring when it was being constructed in the 1870s. There were no buildings nearby when it was built - now it is surrounded by high rises.

Finish the coffees, a smile and a wave to the barstaff, and we are off. We find our entrance - there seem to be hundreds of doors. We are going in the shade side, which is nice, because it is early evening, but still hot. Shade side tickets are more expensive that sun side tickets. Pedro has invested wisely.

We climb the open staircases to the top, and I am surprised to find that the whole section is divided into boxes. I expected circles of seats, like a circus, but that’s not what I find at all. Each little box has about 18 white plastic seats in it, and ours is shared by about 4 groups of people. There are two rows of about 5 or 6 seats at the front of each box, and further back, there are banks of concrete steps on either side of the entrance. Our seats are at the back, and the floor level where our seats were is about two metres above the floor of the entrance. And of course, there are no safety rails. But we can stand up without spoiling anyones views.

Below us, is another level similar to ours, and more below that. I start to count up the people, estimating how big the crowd is, I get over 12,000, and get distracted. The couple in front of me, an older Spanish couple, have heard my accent. “You are English?” “Yes, and it is my first visit to the toros, so I hope that you don’t mind if I ask you questions about it”. They both beam. “Of course not, this is our culture, the culture of our fathers, and of their fathers, and we are very pleased that you are interested”

To one side is a full band, playing that special kind of Andalucian music which has to be played slightly out of tune to give it that genuine feel. After a couple of works from them, there is a blast from the other side of the stadium - half a dozen buglers announce the start of the spectacle.

The bulls were huge. I had always thought that the whole thing was a little unfair, you know that the bull is going to die. But when you see their sheer size and strength, you realise that it isn’t as one sided as you might have thought. And my new Spanish friends tell me that some bulls survive, and are treated as celebrities - although not many of them.

I remember my first real Spanish Christmas, spent with a Spanish family in the Spanish way. We were welcomed into an intimate part of their life, and that’s the way it felt now. I didn’t see or hear any other foreigners, it isn’t for the holidaymakers, it’s a celebration of Spain, of Andalucia.

One of the parties has the tray of cakes out, and it is passed around to everyone. My friend says no, but is finally convinced by the sheer shouting and calling of the women to accept a cake. The man comes round selling seeds, and another couple who are selling water, cola, beer, and whisky. The scene is set.

There is an organisation in each bulls appearance, in each Corrida. Firstly the horsemen, the picadors, put their spears into the bulls neck. And the bull doesn’t take it lightly, more than once it looks as though the horse is going to be turned over. The second act has the banderillos with their darts, and now the bull is slowing down. In the final act, the faena, the matador takes control of the stage. He has to show his mastery over the bull. The bull may be slowing down, but he can be deceptive, suddenly lunging when unexpected, and thousands of voices shout ‘ahh’ together as the matador nimbly leaps to one side. Finally, the matador goes for the kill.

In one corrida, the matador is not very graceful, not very elegant in his attacks, and the audience is not pleased. If the dance is not done correctly, then it should not be done, I am told.

But then, one matador takes a fast moving bull, leaping to one side at the last moment, and I, and about 10,000 other people jumped to our feet as the bull unexpectedly leaps at him. Finally, his sheer skill tires out the bull, and he goes in for the kill. But it has be to done with style, there is a correct time, a correct way, and this matador times it perfectly. He thrusts forward, takes the bull, and the bull collapses, shudders, and is still. Suddenly, the whole stadium are on their feet, white handkerchiefs waving, shouts of “To-re-ro” ringing out in a supplication to the president of the fight, to offer the man the ears of the bull.

I have been priveliged to take part in A Very Spanish Occassion.

And it ain’t half dry as well

So we have all been warned about the fire risk in the countryside. No fag ends out the car window - not only could you be toasting the countryside for kilometres around, you could end up losing points off your driving licence as well. No more barbies in the countryside - it could be more than the sausages that get burnt.

But still the fires come. And the other weekend, there we were, just about to tuck into Sunday lunch. We sat down, wondering what on earth the neighbours were going to have for lunch - the smoke was thick and smelt distinctly un-appetising. Then we heard the crackle, and looked up the valley. Our valley is only a small one, no more than a dozen houses. And just beyond the end of the valley, smoke and flames were leaping into the air. Time to leave the lunch, it’s time to see what is going on.

We don’t expect our house to burn down - but then, who does??? - but we have a Plan. A list of things which are to get into the car if it is a yellow alert. A shorter list if it is a red alert. And a very short list of things to do - turn off the gas container, decide if it needs throwing into to the swimming pool, and shut the windows. The smoke! It get’s everywhere.

But this didn’t reach as far as an alert situation. Although the fire was close, it wasn’t coming in our direction. And anyway, our lemon trees don’t burn. Bonfires that we have started have proved that. The fir trees lining up towards the house would go like the clappers, but hopefully, they aren’t that close. So no need to worry too much. But perhaps someone needs help.

Round on to the lane. I have heard the sirens, but I can’t tell who has gone where. 100 metres along the lane, I am stopped by the police. The road is closed, blocked by the bomberos. Good. Further along the lane, the fire must be stronger, because that is where I saw the smoke.

I pull over, and park up. There are already a few rubber-neckers, a mixture of Spanish and English. People living nearby, walking up the lane to see what the noise is about, what the danger is.

Behind me, a car pulls up. The driver has his head in his hands. Why? Is it perhaps his trees that are burning? Whilst I am trying to figure out what is upsetting him, the other doors of the car shoot open. An older Spanish woman, and what are probably her daughters, jump out. “Oh Dios Mio!”, she screams. “Mia casa, mia casa”. Her casa, her house, is nowhere near the flames, but is engulfed in smoke, caused by the helicopters water bombing the valley just below. She continues to scream, you would think that her entire family had perished, rather than just some more cleaning now being required. Her daughters hold her arms, to stop her collapsing on the floor. One of them comforts her. “Don’t worry, Mama, you have to expect this at this time of year”. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t help.

I see a commotion in one of the house nearby. The men have got a bucket chain going. I rush down, making sure that my exit route is quite secure. The fire is getting dangerously close to one of the houses, the grass and trees run right up to the back of the house. Two men stand in the pool, lifting buckets of swimming pool water, which we then throw over the fence. The heat radiated from the fire, and the sun. combine to make me wish that I had stayed up the hill with the gawkers. But slowly, we acheive some success, and the fire slows down. Someone has the bright idea of bringing up a pump to pump the water. This is hurriedly tied to the steps of the pool with a few bits of rope. “I’ll switch it on”, shouts one man. “No, wait till I get out of the water” comes the very sensible reply.

The pump works, and one man manages to do the work of all of us. I sit down with my feet in what is left of the pool water. By now the helocopters are above and around us. The fire engine, which has been working down the lane, dashes off with it’s klaxons blaring.

“Another fire?”

“No, they have run out of water, and are going back to the village for more”

Below me, I can see a JCB. The englishman who normally makes his living shuffling land around, creating terraces, and digging holes, has his machine running, and is clearing a fire break. But things are calming down now.

No-one hurt, and no property lost. This time. But the summer is a long way from over, and the rains are months away.